Sparks in Scotland (10 page)

The silence stretched comfortably for a minute or two as we both listened to birds cawing and the light conversation of couples and families around us. Shop fronts glowed with a warm yellow light, casting bright splashes of color in the dimming skies.

“I bet you meet people from all over the world,” I finally said. “That has to be neat. How many languages do you know?”

“English, some Gaelic, a wee bit of French. Though my French isn't that great,” he admitted. “You?”

“I'm taking Spanish in school. I'd love to go to Mexico someday, but I imagine my school Spanish is quite different from living Spanish.” A group of birds bounced along the sidewalk in front of us. “Do you meet a lot of Americans?”

“Some.”

“A lot of American girls?” I teased.

A pause. Then, “Aye, some.”

“I hope they're at least nice and not giving my country a bad name.”

He stiffened, and my chest tightened a fraction. “For the most part, Americans are excited about touring our countryside. We get people like your family who are seeking information about their heritage. . . .” His voice trailed off. “Met a girl last summer who took our tour.”

There was a thread of emotion in his voice, almost wistfulness or sadness. I couldn't quite tell. “Sounds like it didn't end well.”

“No, it didn't.”

I started to ask what happened, but before I could, he turned to me with a broad smile and said, “Wanna look in this gift shop? Might find something to finish off yer shopping.”

Okay, message received loud and clear. I pasted on a big grin of my own and nodded. “Yeah, we have a few minutes before we have to go back. And I still have to find a gift for my friend back home.” I followed him inside, trying not to focus on all the questions roaring in my head.

It was obvious what had happened. An American girl had broken his heart. But who was she, and what had she done? Was that why he was so hot and cold around me—because of her? My mind flashed back to our earlier conversation, our story about the castle. As I stared at the case of necklaces, my heart sank.

The French bride in the castle—she must have been this other American girl. And given the way he'd changed the subject, it was all too possible that she still had some part of his heart.

Chapter
Ten

T
he strong morning breezes whipped
and tore through my hair, and I clutched the side of the ferry with a tighter grip. A cluster of clouds gathered in the distance and seemed to be moving west at a steady clip—right toward us. Well, we'd had several days of glorious sunshine. Couldn't last forever.

“This crazy wind is going to blow me right off the ferry!” I called out to my mom with a laugh.

She grinned, and her hair danced in the air too. “At least we're here and you can walk to the shore if you fall off the boat.”

Our ferry docked, and our tour group exited. I eyed the small island for a moment, the homes and ancient buildings that ­speckled the green landscape.

Steaphan waved us to the side. His turtleneck was a rich
­purple that made his dark hair shine and his light skin glow. We all had on rain jackets, as we'd been warned about the possibility of drizzling weather today. “We have a coupla hours to explore the island. It's a wee size, so don't worry about getting lost. Only two kilometers by six kilometers or so.” He winked at me with a cheeky grin. “That's a mile wide by around four miles long for you Americans.”

I chuckled and nodded my thanks. Yeah, my metric conversions were a bit on the slow side.

“Population of Iona is small, under a hundred and fifty or so. But it's a bonny isle. Make sure ya check out the abbey while you're here. It's well worth the visit to see the architectural details, and the main building itself has great historical importance as one of the best-preserved abbeys to survive the Middle Ages.” He glanced at his watch. “Okay, meet back here at eleven thirty. We'll ferry back to Oban for lunch, then head to Glencoe for the afternoon. All right?”

Our families all nodded, and the Swedish family came up and started talking to him.

The two little German kids tugged at their mom's hands and pulled her toward the shore, where they grabbed sticks and started carving into the rocky sand. She stood back and watched them with a bemused smile. I laughed—I was so the same way when I was little, wanting to get dirty and make mud pies all the time.

“Sometimes I miss being that carefree,” Graham said, popping up beside me, his eyes on the kids.

“Me too. Though I'd hate to come all the way to Iona just to
play with dirt.” I eyed the landscape, the rugged hills both on the tiny island and on the faraway mainland shore that had come to represent the heart and soul of Scotland to me. Hard to believe this was my seventh day in this country. In some ways, it felt like I'd been here for weeks. In others, the time had passed like a blink of an eye.

“Wanna hit the abbey with me?” he asked.

I nodded and couldn't fight the excitement building in my chest. He'd sought me out and wanted to walk with me. I darted over to my parents, who waved me off with a knowing shake of their heads. Apparently, they weren't worried about me getting lost, since the island was so small. They threaded their fingers together and walked off.

Graham and I strolled across a flower-dotted stretch of grass toward a series of stone buildings in the near distance. The clouds had begun to thicken and stretch out over us, so the sunlight ­dappled in small bursts across the grass.

He cleared his throat. “Look, I want to apologize for last night. I was . . . a wee abrupt, and I'm sorry.”

Our evening had ended in a stilted manner, with neither of us really looking at each other and both wearing these big, fake smiles. I'd felt too embarrassed to press him for more information, especially since it was clear he didn't want to talk about it. And he'd gotten quiet and pulled away. Last night it had taken me a while to fall asleep, my stomach was so nervous about what would happen today.

I gave him a nod. “Thanks,” I replied sincerely. Though a hint of that awkwardness was still lingering, I was glad he'd come to me to talk about it. “I didn't mean to be nosy, Graham—”

“No, it's not you,” he said, shaking his head. “It's . . . well, if ya don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it today.” He bent down and plucked a small yellow flower out of the ground. “Is that all right?” With a small smile of apology, he handed me the flower.

“Oh, sure.” I couldn't quite blame him. Sometimes talking about the past soured the mood of the present. And today, on this tiny island, I wanted to enjoy my time, not pollute it with bad memories. “I get it, trust me. It's totally fine.” I tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear, then added the flower.

“Bonny,” he said as he eyed me. There was a hint of a smile on his face.

My cheeks burned. There was no doubt he wasn't just talking about the flower. He meant me. I swallowed and gave him a nervous grin.

We headed toward the abbey, our steps slow and purposeful. No rushed movements, just a leisurely walk. The tension in my chest from earlier lightened with each step. Yes, Graham might have liked a girl in his past, and I couldn't control or impact that. But he wasn't with her now, that much was obvious. He'd even told me before that he was single.

Instead of being worried about his past and how it impacted me, I should focus on the here and now. Enjoy these moments we had together.

We neared the group of buildings, which had a small graveyard on the side. There were people already wandering around, eyeing the headstones, entering and exiting buildings.

Graham pressed a hand to my lower back, which sent a surge of warmth into my torso. He guided me to the edge of the graveyard. “All right, lemme see if I recall my da's speech.”

I chuckled. “I'm sure you'll do a fine job.”

He cleared his throat and began in an overly formal manner, mimicking his father's deep voice, “In case you weren't aware, a number of Scottish kings were buried in the abbey grounds in the past.”

I bit back a giggle.

“In fact,” he said, waving his hand with a finger pointed in the air as I'd seen his dad do, “a few kings of other countries like Norway and Ireland are buried here as well. Wouldn't have expected that, would ya?”

“That's super interesting,” I said as seriously as I could manage.

His eyes twinkled as he looked at me. “Did I do a fair enough job?”

“More than.”

“Then let's move on, because that's all I can remember,” he said as he waved his hand toward the cluster of buildings. “Follow me, please.”

More clouds moved in, and the sun was blotted out completely as we headed into the actual chapel. While we walked around, admiring the columns, the ancient stone, and the religious solem
nity of the area, Graham told me about the history of the chapel, dating back to the twelfth century. Whereas he'd been a little silly outside, in here his hushed tones showed his true feelings—filled with respect and honor for this island's importance.

I couldn't help but watch, transfixed, while he moved around, showed me the interior of the chapel. His words spilled in excitement as he relayed information his dad had told him, memories he had of visiting here as a kid.

We left the abbey, quieter than we'd been before, and walked in a gentle silence as the air misted and drizzled around us. I pulled my hood over my hair so it wouldn't be a frizzy mess. By unspoken agreement, we drifted toward the rocky waterfront, listening as birds cawed and the water lapped the shores. Despite the weather, there was a serenity on this small island I hadn't expected.

“Do you come here often?” I asked him, then flushed when I realized how cheesy and clichéd that sounded.

Luckily, he didn't seem to pick up on the double entendre. “I pretty much only come during tours. And I'm usually too busy helping my da to enjoy it. Since our group is small this time, the experience is different.”

We stared out at the water, and I took mental pictures of the panoramic skyline. The water had grown darker and choppier as the wind picked up; I shivered as a brisk breeze whipped a spray of water along my neck.

Graham stepped in front of me to block me from the rain, which started to pound harder and slant at an angle. “We should
find somewhere to go and dry off,” he said in a husky tone as he looked down at me. His eyes seemed to have changed with the weather, slightly hooded and darker than I'd seen them. He pulled my hood over my head a little tighter.

I sucked in a shaky breath as I inched closer to him. There were scant inches separating us now, and my blood hummed in my veins. I wanted this guy to kiss me so badly I could almost taste it. Water beaded on his eyelashes, dribbled down his face and hair. “You're getting soaked.” My voice sounded throaty.

Long moments passed, and he glanced at my mouth. Inched a fraction closer. Then blinked and moved back, giving a shaky smile. The hesitation was clear in his eyes, his stiff body language. “Let's get back inside the chapel till this passes over.”

I scraped together my pride and nodded like I was a bobblehead doll. “Yeah, sure. Totally.”

We ran all the way back to the chapel, rain drumming on our heads, our backs. My feet slipped in a few muddy spots, and ­Graham grabbed my hand to steady me before I fell. When we got inside, we saw clusters of others doing the same thing, peering out the small windows and waiting the weather out. The German dad waved at Graham to come over to them.

“I'll be back in a moment,” he told me with an apologetic smile.

“Yeah, that's totally fine. Go ahead.” I urged him away. That was good anyway, because I kind of needed to pull emotionally back into myself. I'd been about three seconds from leaning toward him and planting a kiss right on his mouth.

Which would have been a total disaster, given the way he'd moved back. I'd either really misread his face or he'd changed his mind and decided he didn't want to kiss me after all.

Pride burned low in my gut. It would have crushed me to see him regretful about it. Not to mention make the rest of the trip awkward.

I kept my gaze firmly focused outside and waited for the rain to lighten. After about ten minutes, Graham came back to my side, and in another few minutes, the rain became a light drizzle again. Good enough for Scottish standards—we could continue walking around.

I kept my hands tucked in my jacket pocket and my distance far enough away to keep me from looking clingy. I smiled and laughed at his jokes, kept the game face on to not give away my embarrassment about our non-kiss. We boarded the ferry, and I rejoined my parents and summed up what I'd learned about Iona.

I was proud of myself for not looking back at Graham once.

* * *

Glencoe was unreal.

Our group was in the actual glens of Glencoe, having spent a little time first exploring the nearby quaint village. Steaphan had informed us the population there was just over three hundred, and the homes were tucked neatly into the hillside, with a clean stretch of road down the middle. Given that I lived in a popular suburb of Cleveland with over fifty thousand people in just under seven square miles, I found it amazing that people lived in such small towns.

Steaphan gathered us around and told us the story of what had happened here in 1692, the massacre of innocent people that haunted Glencoe's residents even today. I pressed a hand to my chest, moved by the passion and sorrow etched on Steaphan's face as he talked.

“This is sad, yah?” the Swedish girl said in a hushed whisper to me.

I blinked in surprise. “Um, yes, it really is.” She'd hardly looked at me since we'd started our trip yesterday morning, though I'd tried to tell her hello before. Given that we were the only two teenage girls on the trip, I was glad she was making the effort now. Maybe she was just shy.

As Steaphan talked on, she told me, “I am Tilda.” She thrust her hand out to me, and her cheeks flushed with a light-pink color. “My English is no good sometimes. But I still try. So I wanted to be saying hello.”

Ah, so self-consciousness about her language skills was why she hadn't been much of a talker. My heart welled with sympathy for her. It was hard, risking being laughed at. I took her hand and shook it. “You speak better English than I speak any other language,” I assured her with a smile. “I'm Ava.”

“You like Scotland, yah?” she spoke slowly, as if thinking on each word before saying it. “And the island this morning, it was . . . pretty.”

I nodded and slowed my speech a bit to make it easier for her to translate. “Yes, it's beautiful. I keep thinking I can't be sur
prised anymore, but with every new site we visit, I'm shocked by its beauty. I've probably taken a hundred pictures so far, and we still have several days left in our tour.”

“Yah, me too.” She gave a light chuckle and tucked her dark-blond hair behind her ear. Her eyes danced with unreserved warmth. “I am glad we are talking, Ava. Maybe we can talk later too?”

“That would be great.” My smile matched hers.

“Okay, I am joining my family now. I will see you!” She bounced off to her mom and dad's sides, and I heard the soft tones of their Swedish tongue.